A Morning Without an Italian In the Kitchen
by Saya-Sama
Summary: Usually, Italy does all the cooking.  But when Italy falls sick, it's up to Germany to make him an Italian-styled breakfast.  It should be easy, right?  ...Right?


**This is the first time I've written Germany and Italy. I hope I did okay with them!**

Germany rose at six, as per usual. And, as was also typical of him, Germany was entirely prepared to rouse the Italian clinging to him as well. Except Italy was not clinging to him—or at least, not with his typical stubbornness. This morning it was less a vice grip and more like an accidental overlap of extremities. The amount of uninhibited circulation was unusual and therefore bad; if his day started off-track, then surely it would remain that way until he went to sleep again. He considered speeding up the process and just going back to sleep but, no, then he'd wake up late and that would further ruin the day. Instead, he just looked over to the sleeping Italian, preparing to wake him, and despaired at what he saw.

Italy's face was at once flushed and pale; his cheeks were a fevered red while the rest of his face was a sickly pallor, nearing white and shining with sweat. Heat radiated off of his face, so much so that Germany could feel it on his hand long before it touched the Italian's forehead. There was no doubt about the state of Italy's health after that, and with a sigh Germany resigned himself to calling his and his lover's bosses in order to get the day off. He knew his day was going to be thrown off-track.

Still groggy, Germany walked down the hall to the bathroom and prepared a wet towel, a glass of water and some medicine for the ailing Italian. The water and medicine were soon placed on the nightstand, the wet towel on Italy's forehead. Now all that was left was to make breakfast and wait for Italy to wake up—

Oh goodness. He was going to have to make breakfast for Italy—picky, gourmet Italy.

_Scheiße._

000_  
_

Italy dreamed of Dante's inferno, of steaming kitchens in August, of cooking pasta in the desert except there wasn't any water and no Germany to help him either. Then, abruptly, they shifted to visions of gelato, of cool days in early spring and Sundays spent snuggled on the couch in Germany's air-conditioned living room. Italy was content to stay in these dreams until a loud bang, followed by louder German curses, tore through them like a bullet and forced him awake. Startled, he flung himself into a sitting position, sending something on his forehead flying to the comforter with a wet thump.

Woozy from the sudden motion, Italy almost allowed himself to drop back to the bed, but before he could he saw the clock. Oh goodness, it was nearly nine already! Germany was going to be so mad at him for sleeping in; he would probably stop Italy from taking his siesta! Sluggishly teetering on his feet, Italy grabbed the folded shirt that sat on top of the nightstand, almost missing the glass of water and medicine that sat on the corner. On the notepad Germany left there was a short message telling him to take both. It also, much to the Italian's delight, told him he could sleep in for as long as he felt was necessary.

Excited, Italy was about do exactly as he'd been told (Germany would be so proud of how well he could follow directions) when he smelt something burning and heard the unmistakable sound of Germany's head meeting the wall in frustration. Curious, he walked downstairs to the kitchen.

"Ve… Ludwig?" His voice came out horse and unexpectedly weak. Finally, it dawned on him that he was sick; that's why he had that strange sensation that his head was both light as air and heavy as lead, why he was dizzy and why Germany had left medicine for him.

Another curse came from the kitchen, and a moment later Germany's head was popping out from around the corner. "Feliciano, good morning. Please go back upstairs and continue to rest."

"What're you doing?" Instead of doing as told, Italy walked into the kitchen to inspect what was going on. Immediately he found what Germany had been cursing about; on the stove was a small pot of something that had severely boiled over, making a mess of the stove top and probably burning the bottom of the pot. Moreover, there seemed to be a number of croissants on the kitchen floor. Germany's face was completely red with embarrassment at being caught in the middle of such a mess.

Italy, as per usual, was completely oblivious to the other's discomfort.

"Ve, Ludwig, those don't go on the floor!" Italy knelt to pick up the poor, abused breakfast pastries when a bout of dizziness hit him and he fell. Luckily, Germany had been close enough to catch him before he hit the floor, and carried him to the kitchen table.

"Please rest here for now, I'll have breakfast ready for you soon," Germany said, placing Italy in a chair. He had intended to bring the meal of croissants, cappuccino, and tomato soup up to Italy but now that he was down here, they might as well eat breakfast together.

"But Ludwig, you haven't made breakfast in _years_." Which was true enough, as Italy had commandeered his kitchen sometime during World War II. If he were completely honest with himself, Germany would admit he didn't cook much of anything when Italy was over anymore, cakes and other sweets being the only exceptions. Still, Italy's little breakfasts couldn't possibly be too difficult for him to cook—It was just a pastry and some exalted coffee, for goodness sake! The soup was just something for Italy's fever, and Germany had just been a bit careless, that was all.

"I am perfectly capable of making it! Your job is to rest!" Germany said in his best command voice. Italy's back straightened and he saluted reflexively, before he registered the command and allowed his head to fall to the table. Content with this, Germany put the ruined croissants out for his dogs, before returning to the kitchen to start them over again. Luckily, there was still plenty of left-over dough from the first batch.

"Ludwiiiig that's too much flour."

"Feliciano, your eyes aren't even open."

"You've gotta trim the edges first, too..."

Germany took a deep, stabilizing breath. Italy was sick, he reminded himself, it would do him no good to get angry at a sick person, and Italy had always seen just fine with his eyes closed anyway. Finishing up the croissants, Germany got Italy's approval on them before placing them in the oven. Now he could focus on making something that would make his ailing Italian feel better. However, what was left of the tomato soup in the pot didn't look like something his lover would touch, so it too was handed to the dogs.

Maybe he should just boil some chicken broth; there was no way that could go wrong. Would Italy eat something so... unrefined and canned, though? Germany was trying to decide whether it would be worth it to just make Italy eat whatever he decided on cooking, when a familiar weight pressed against his back and two arms weakly curled around his neck.

"Soup for breakfast is too much Ludwig," the weak whine came a moment later, followed by a quick peck on the cheek that soothed Germany's patience before it had a chance to snap. He should have realized that even when sick, Italy would be serious about food.

"You need more than bread and coffee or you'll never get better."

"Does that mean I could sleep in everyday?" Because Italy could take a bit of dizziness if it mean he got to sleep all he wanted.

"No."

Italy huffed, slid off of Germany and shuffled over to the cappuccino machine on the far side of the counter. Germany would've tried to get him to drink something healthier, but knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"Take your drink into the living room. I'll bring the rest when it is finished."

Italy nearly dropped his cappuccino. "B-but you never let me eat outside of the kitchen unless there's a game on or you're having an "adventurous" ni-!"

"Feliciano! The living room, now, before I think better of it." Germany always had found it easier to be commanding when sufficiently flustered. With the same lazy shuffle he'd been using since he woke up, Italy took his cappuccino into the living room, feeling paranoid that Germany would suddenly change his mind and get angry over it.

With the kitchen to himself again, Germany squared his shoulders and glared at the dirtied stove; it _would_ cooperate and make some adequate soup or it would die trying.

000

Now out of the sanctuary of the kitchen (which, along with being something of a Twilight Zone where it was possible for Italy and France to actually _win_ at something, seemed to have mysterious powers of healing), Italy was back to feeling miserable and ill. The cappuccino was placed on the coffee table and exchanged for the tissue box that was conveniently placed there. All necessary equipment well in hand, Italy curled up on the couch and tried to sleep.

Being Italian, this should've been easy.

However, it was not.

There was, coming from the kitchen (his only conquered territory!) bangs and blasts the likes of which he'd only ever heard when Austria was cooking. It was hard to sleep when worry for the kitchen he had so lovingly stolen away from the German's abuse (kitchens were meant to cook more than meat and potatoes!) sounded like it was being bombed. Germany had said he was making _soup_ right?

Italy was very, very tempted to simply go back in there and retake his territory, but his body was not accommodating him today and refused to part with the couch. So it was with dread that he waited for the abuse to end for maybe a whole half-hour more.

Italy did his best to catch the scent of his breakfast when the kitchen door opened, but was confronted with the reality that was his clogged nose. Considering all the explosions, Italy thought that might be for the best. No, he should have faith in Germany's cooking! He wasn't England after all (and thank God for that)!

The food placed on the coffee table before him looked perfectly fine. The croissants were a perfect golden brown color and, well, how could anyone mess up chicken broth?

Then again, how could anyone make loud explosions while heating it?

He ate it anyway, all thoughts about questionable cooking noises set aside in order to appreciate the rare affection Germany was showing him now. Everything had turned out alright in the end, though Italy could hardly taste any of it. But it wasn't inedible, the kitchen was probably immaculate as ever despite the explosions, and Germany was letting Italy lean on his shoulder as he drank his cappuccino and occasionally stole kisses without wasting a single thought on germs. Really, if this was what it was like, Italy thought he could stand to get sick more often.

Germany, meanwhile, was simply relieved that Italy was eating his food—and without complaint, even! His confidence in the kitchen was restored. He had conquered it, though it put up a mighty fight. Heck, he could do it all again if he had to.

…Which he did. For lunch.

_Scheiße._


End file.
